


Turning

by oh_fudgecakes



Series: the ghosts of wayne manor [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Temporary Character Death, this is supposed to be a happy series, wow this is a really sad prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_fudgecakes/pseuds/oh_fudgecakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All alone in the aftermath of Damian’s death, Bruce wanders the abandoned halls of Wayne Manor, and finds the imprints left behind by young Robins.</p>
<p>This is a prologue of sorts to a series of oneshots that will build upon one another. Each work can be read alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue of sorts to a series of oneshots that will build upon one another. Each work can be read alone.

A solemn fall morning, the house was quiet. Outside the window, the gold leaves spun down in silence as he stood at the breakfast table, sorting through letters. It would only be right if the entire world had stopped to mourn, but nature worked in mysterious ways and life went on outside of these walls. Here, a letter acknowledging Damian’s withdrawal from school, condolences from the principal. There, letters addressed to his son— Colin Wilkes, Carrie Kelley, heartfelt letters Damian would never read. It seemed wrong that these letters could continue to pile up in the mailbox, that he still found these letters amidst the bills and advertisements when the world should have ended when Damian had. He sorted them into two piles: for Damian, and everything else.

Alfred had gone, taking a long-due vacation on Dick’s orders. Dick was back in New York. Tim and Jason had been off his radar for a long time. There was only him and the ghosts of the manor.

He gathered up his son’s letters once he was done and brought them up to his room. He couldn’t throw them out, and yet did not quite know what to do with them. The room somehow looked as it always did. Bright, welcoming in the morning light, with the curtains half-drawn and a half-completed painting still on the easel by the window. There was a box of Damian’s things on the floor, gathered from around the manor by someone else: birdarangs, a black jacket with yellow stripes down the arms, a stack of books, a plethora of knives, the slim end of his violin case peeking out amidst it all.

“Alfred!” he called to ask that the box be put away, before remembering that the old man was not in.

He put the letters on top, and hefted the cardboard box up in his arms. He opened Damian’s wardrobe. It was neat, save for a shirt that had fallen off its changer when he had been rushing for school, and a pair of shoes thrown haphazardly in the corner, the ratty shoelaces undone. It looked like Damian had simply gone out, and would be back any moment. The box, the reminder that Damian was gone— he could not bear to leave there. He closed the wardrobe doors. The box would go in the attic.

He carried the box back out of the room, up the stairs to the very top floor of the house. The door creaked as he toed it open. The lights were turned off. Dust covered the furniture draped in white sheets, random trinkets were piled up on the creaky wooden floor. In the corner, a small chandelier lay by the window, collecting dust. There was a space beside it, just the right size to fit the box in his arms. He moved toward it, but as he was passing a stack of Dick’s old textbooks, his foot went right through the floor.

The contents of the box spilled out over the creaky floorboards.

Looking back, he saw that there was a hole in the floor that had been loosely boarded over, weak, and it had given under his weight. For a moment, he couldn’t help but recall a time long past— a different life, a different son, a young boy fallen down into the storeroom below while exploring. The storeroom held the remnants of his childhood as well as his parents personal artefacts. Perhaps… perhaps Damian’s belongings would be better off there instead.

Making a decision, he began to gather up the scattered items. There was an envelope underneath the jacket: _To All Future Robins._ He picked it up, smiling bitterly. There would be no future Robins, no more dead children. He put everything back in the box, carried it out of the attic and down to the locked storeroom door below. Leaving he box there, he went to retrieve the storeroom key from his study. It took him awhile, but he found it in the end. He hadn’t entered the storeroom since Jason had passed. He didn’t like the reminders that waited within it.

He set Damian’s belongings down beside his father’s journals and Jason’s old textbooks. On an old dresser beside him, a child’s hand was imprinted on a small pin-art board. A couple of journals were laid out on the floor, but he left them there, following his own footprints in the dust back out of the room and locking the door behind him.

He retraced his steps, back past Damian’s room, past Jason’s room, past the old music room. He could almost hear the sound of music, of his parents’ laughter, could almost see phantom figures sitting at the old grand piano. Whenever he’d heard the strings of Damian’s violin singing from behind closed doors, he had always hoped that he would be able to reopen the music room one day. He had hoped that he would one day sweep the dust from that old piano, that music might fill stately Wayne Manor once more. He continued past the closed door, to his father’s study, through the old clock and down into the cave.

He stopped in front of Jason’s uniform.

There were many things he regretted, many tears he’d shed. There were children that had died for his cause, sons he had lost to the shadow of the cowl.

_No more,_ he swore, _no more._

The Bat-computer lit up with a call from the League— another crisis, no doubt. Good people die, children perish in meaningless struggles for power. Yet, the world goes on turning. Almost absently, he reached for the button that would bring the call through.

_‘Bruce,’_ said Superman’s solemn voice from the screen, _’I know it’s a bad time but… we have an issue.’_

The world goes on turning.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.


End file.
